A Pocketful Of Posies
by GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: Yin and yang, dark and light. Brothers in body, yet bitter with spite. Who's in the wrong, and who's in the right? More importantly, who wins the fight? For one brings life, the other death, one creates laughter, the other steals breath. The first needs to win, the other to fall, but he who must fail is now winning this brawl. (Rated T for blood) (Rewrite of Snow Angel) (Very AU)
1. Prologue

**A/N: I. AM. ALIVE AHAHAHAHAHAHA-**

 **Ahem. Yes.**

 **Anyway, I am back at last, to give you what you Snow Angel fans have all been waiting for: the new, improved, certified better edition! Meet "A Pocketful Of Posies", also known as the second edition of "Will You, Won't You, Will You, Won't You, Won't You Join The Dance"! Complete with better writing, more horror, and a shorter and better title! Applause! *throws arms up to the the sky***

 **...**

 ***crickets chirping***

 ***gently lowers arms* Huh. Good to see you're all so enthusiastic. -_-**

 **I kid, I kid. But really, I'm actually quite proud of this prologue. As good ol' Mary Poppins would say, "a job well begun is half done." Hopefully, the rest will be just as good, if not better!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. Which is probably a good thing, as the script would have been crap. As well as gory. But mostly crap.**

* * *

"Jackson!"

"Jackson?"

"Jackson, where are you?"

The woman's brown eyes scanned the interior of the room, her lips pursed in a frown as she searched for her son. Huffing, she brushed a strand of dark auburn hair out of her face as she called the boy's name again.

Silence.

 _...Emily Nordwind Overland had always known that her son was a strange, strange child._

 _Oh, she may try to deny it, and hide it, and avoid it, but the fact remained that her dear Jackson was very, very far from normal._

She sighed. If Jackson wasn't responding, there were only two things that could be wrong. Either he was deliberately hiding somewhere, or he was having one of his special 'episodes' again.

...Most likely the latter.

Briskly, the mother of one (soon to be of two, if her figure was anything to go by) began to search the cottage, her brown skirt swishing around her ankles as she looked for her child. The search did not take long, as the house was small, with only four rooms. Thus, she soon found Jack in his room.

It took only one glance to figure out what was the matter.

 _She had realized this when he was but a little child, when his chocolate-brown eyes would glaze over slightly, gazing at something far away that no one else could see._

The woman darted hastily to the dazed-looking child sitting on the bed, gently placing her hands on his shoulders as she attempted to coax him back to reality. She shook him lightly, calling his name persistently in an effort to grasp his attention. It took a few minutes, but soon her son's brown eyes lost their vacant expression and drifted back into focus.

 _He would stay utterly frozen for a few seconds, before abruptly coming back to his senses..._

"M-mom?"

 _...with a jolt, trembling as he fought to shake his little 'fit' off._

She said nothing, choosing instead to sit on the bed beside him and envelop her eight-year old son in her arms. She rocked him gently back and forth as she attempted to bring some comfort. Goodness knows he needed it.

 _At first, Emily had thought nothing of it. As long as he did not hurt anyone, she was content._

She raked her fingers slowly through his messy mop of brown hair, humming an old song under her breath in order to calm the now-shaking child.

 _Then, it started getting worse._

"Mom?"

 _His 'fits' grew longer, and he would sometimes freeze for hours at a time, barely moving and barely breathing…_

"Yes, Jack? What is it, little one?"

 _...as he gazed intently at something only he could see. Sometimes, his mouth would open…_

"H-how bad was it this time?"

 _...and he would murmur half-intelligible phrases and words that meant nothing at all._

"Not bad at all, Jackson. Don't worry, my dear."

 _It only grew worse and worse. Doctors could do nothing for him, not even when his 'fits' grew more violent. She still remembered the time when he had smashed a plate during a particularly bad one._

"A-are you sure?"

"Absolutely, my love."

She neglected to mention the broken cup lying outside his door, knowing it would only upset him further.

 _It didn't mean that she didn't love him, however. A mother's love is constant and unchanging…_

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"C-can you stay here a little while?"

 _...and just because her child wasn't quite right in the head..._

Emily Nordwind Overland didn't say a word, simply cradling her son against her chest.

... _didn't mean that she didn't love him fervently with every cell in her body._

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"...I love you."

"I love you too, Jack."

They stayed that way, curled up on the bed, until late in the evening when her husband returned from his hunting.

* * *

"Mom?"

Emily looked up from her plate, only to find herself gazing right into a pair of shining brown eyes.

"Yes, Emmaline?"

"Why do we live so far away from other people?"

 _They had used to live in a village, before Emmaline was born. It was a cozy little town, filled with friendly faces….Their stay hadn't lasted long, though…_

"W-what do you mean?"

 _...After all, Jack's violent 'fits' weren't exactly easy to hide. Especially when he had suddenly attacked an older boy without warning._

"Jack said you used to live in a...vi—lla—ge." The unfamiliar word fell hesitantly from the little brunette's lips as she frowned in thought, "That's a place filled with people, right? People like us?"

 _As much as she had wanted to stay in the village, after that little 'incident', she had been forced to leave. These were troubled times, after all, when superstition and fear abounded, and being 'strange' could have disastrous and bloody consequences. People were only too willing to rip others apart, if only because of an inkling of a suspicion that a person may be possessed, or a witch, or a demon._

 _Personally, Emily didn't believe in such superstitious nonsense, but it wasn't her opinion that mattered._

 _Three weeks after the 'incident' , they had moved._

Emily frowned at her son, who ducked his head in shame as he avoided her glare. She sighed, wondering how she was going to explain this to her four year old daughter.

 _Moved away from the village, to a small abandoned cottage in the middle of the woods. It was a cozy place, with game to hunt and a lake nearby for fishing…_

She chose her words carefully. "Some people live in these villages, yes...But others don't. We are one of those who don't."

The brunette nodded, accepting this explanation.

 _...and it was here that she and her husband had a second child, a girl they had named Emmaline. A beautiful, kind, charming, blissfully_ _ **normal**_ _girl._

"Now eat your supper."

The rest of the meal continued in silence.

* * *

 _Needless to say, Emily and her husband had doted on the child, raising her in a world where everything was perfect and the words "No, Emmaline" did not exist. She had been practically spoiled, while Jackson (inept, crazy, sick,_ _ **broken**_ _Jackson) had been left on the sidelines, forced to watch as his parents and younger sibling lived in a small idyllic world of their own where he had no place. No one had noticed when his 'fits' grew more frequent and longer. No one had noticed the times when he felt he had no control over his body or mind. No one noticed when he slowly began to spiral into the dark, terrifying depths of depraved insanity. No one had noticed, because no one had_ _ **cared.**_

 _It was only when her husband died that Emily realized how utterly_ _ **stupid**_ _she had been. How callous she had been to abandon her son when he needed her the most. How horrible she had been to her only son._

 _The problem was, by that time, it was too late. Far, far too late._

* * *

The mother of two pressed her back against the wall, the tiny hand of her five year old daughter held tightly between her fingers. She knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable.

Surprisingly enough, Emily felt remarkably calm. She was going to die, it was true, but such was her fate, she mused. She had sinned when she had turned her back on her son, and now it was time for her to face the consequences. She could only hope that her daughter wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.

She gazed steadily into the eyes of the boy in front of her (not her son, that _fiend_ was _not_ her son). She ignored the knife that the fiend was holding, she ignored his strangely blank and emotionless face, she ignored the dark red substance currently staining the tips of his fingers. She had eyes only for his own brown ones.

"Jack, please don't do this. Think of your sister."

The fiend stared at her, his face still blank, his eyes uncharacteristically cold.

Suddenly, he spoke. It was a harsh, disused sound, as if he had been swallowing pebbles. "I am not Jack."

He moved closer to her, the pungent smell of coppery pain clinging closely to his lithe frame. Emily's breathing faltered as his mouth abruptly stretched into a wide, unnatural grin, so like yet so _un_ like the smile she knew so well, and she swore she could see his teeth turning sharper and more cruel-looking.

Then the knife was at her throat, and her heart stopped.

The gravelly voice rasped once more.

"My name is Angel."

* * *

 **A/N: Some of you older arrivals will notice it contains bits of the old prologue. Fear not, this is the last you will ever see of any material from the older version.  
**

 **Also, I must warn you: UPDATES WILL BE RARE. This story is NOT prewritten, and I am a busy person as well as someone who wants to write this story well, so yeah. Updates will be rare.**

 **...Review?**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Heeeey, crazy people. Been a while, hasn't it?**

 **Anyway, here is the next Snow Angel snippet. Not much action here, but I don't believe in jumping right into the exciting bits first, so have this instead!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. Also, I am NOT a trained doctor, psychiatrist, or psychologist, so what I know about dissociative identity disorder could be mildly erroneous or just downright wrong. This story is therefor not meant to contain a reliable and realistic depiction of this condition, and some aspects of the depiction could be exaggerated or incorrect.**

* * *

 _It was three in the morning, and as such, "The Liquid Luck" was nearly empty._

 _The bar in question was a ramshackle, depressed looking place in Northern Ireland, nestled deep among a few small hills. Its sunflower-yellow paint was peeling off the walls, its strawberry singles decayed and dulled. Bricks were crumbling like old cheese, the eaves appears to have had chunks forcefully ripped out, the rust-stained copper rain gutters were bent and mangled. A tattered, aged sign dangled pathetically from a remaining piece of eave, creaking and groaning with the lethargic beckoning of the wind. All in all, it was a decrepit, lonely-looking little place._

 _It was, however, the only spirit pub in the world, and as such, it was exceedingly popular._

 _Spirits, sprites, ghosts, and golems came in droves from around the globe just to spend a night at "The Liquid Luck". Drinking games were started, bar fights were had, songs were sung, and occasionally a happy couple was formed. Yes, this worn out building had seen everything from the most euphoric of joys to the darkest of depressions._

 _As was usual in such a place, there were "regulars," spirits who came frequently and periodically. Among them were such known figures as the Groundhog (Jack Daniels, more often than not), Morticia Persephone (Manzanilla sherry), Pitch Black_ _(_ _Sauvignon Blanc_ _), Mother Nature (gin and tonic), and so on and so forth._

 _There was, however, one "regular" that always caught Fergus's attention._

 _Every Wednesday night, at three AM in the morning, some kind of frost spirit would appear without fail. When he entered the room, bare feet smacking against the filth-encrusted wooden floor and torn brown cape_ _fluttering behind him, any stragglers, no matter how intoxicated, would take one look at him before hurriedly flinging some change on the table and_ _fleeing out the back door._

 _Not that Fergus was complaining, of course, for such hasty payments generally resulted in fairly large tips, but he was intrigued._

 _It was why he had made his new resolution: today was Wednesday, and he was going to uncover this mystery._

 _Thus, he waited. The filthy, frayed,_ _and likely extremely_ _unhygienic_ _rag he was using swished in and out of the glasses, adding considerably more grime than it removed. He kept one gimlet green eye on the door and the other on the progressively dirtier glass, eager for the moment when the winter spirit would walk through the door._

 _He was not disappointed. At precisely 3:04 AM, the door swung open, admitting the white-haired teen that had piqued Fergus' curiosity. The teen confidently took his place at his usual table by the grimy and scratched window, apparently unconcerned when the fire spirit, the medieval ghost, and the fairly drunk water nymph that still remained at the bar hastily left, leaving the place empty except for the boy and Fergus himself._

 _Grunting, the leprechaun placed the glass and the rag down on the counter-top, before hauling himself to the young spirit's table. "The usual?"_

 _The spirit nodded, prompting Fergus back_ _to_ _the counter, where he was quick to prepare a_ _Jägerbomb for the lad. The spirit rapidly chugged the drink as if he were a dying man, before ordering another one._

 _On his third drink, the spirit finally looked relaxed enough for Fergus to attempt talking to him. The portly leprechaun searched his mind for a topic. "You alright there, lad?"_

 _In his defense, the question bore asking. The spirit looked worn out and ragged, with dark circles heavily painted under his dull blue eyes, and the hunched over posture of those who had the weight of the world on their shoulders. The spirit stared at Fergus briefly, as if processing the older spirit's question, before nodding hesitantly. He then paused, considered, and shook his head instead._

" _Want to talk about it?"_

 _This time, he was rewarded with a decisive and vehement shake of the head. Shrugging, Fergus turned away to leave. "Alright, lad. But I'm around if you ever want to talk."_

 _He was acutely aware of the winter spirit's piercing stare on his back as he walked away, but he didn't look back._

* * *

Today was not a good day.

Jack sighed quietly from his place on the window-seat, staring outside at the barren landscape and doing his best to drown out the sounds of North and Bunny arguing. Their constant yelling was making his already splitting headache worse and his anxiety spike to new levels, and right now all he wanted was to leave the meeting as soon as was feasibly possible.

Normally, he liked these little gatherings. Ever since the incident with Fergus, he'd been more or less alone, and it was good to have some company sometimes. Today, however, was very much not a good day, and in light of that all he wanted was to be left alone in order to rest and to lick his wounds.

Alas, _noblesse oblige,_ as they say, and he was required to fulfill his new responsibilities _._ Indeed, there were times he seriously hated being a Guardian.

His next sigh turned into a hiss of pain halfway through, as his headache abruptly spiked. White spots began to dance merrily across his vision, and he closed his eyes tightly in an attempt to get rid of them.

"Easter is more important than Christmas, ya drongo!"

"My friend, you must be joking-"

A low humming started up, one he knew altogether too well, and Jack abruptly jackknifed into a sitting position, eyes wide.

"I carry gifts all over the world! I work all year! Surely my holiday is more important!"

"Maybe, but most ankle-biters just throw yer 'gifts' aside after just a few _days_. Mine are treasured fer _weeks!"_

"Yours are _eaten_!"

He felt his heart rate increase as the humming sound intensified. He knew what would happen, what this terrifying aura signified, and as much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn't.

"At least they're enjoyed more than yers are!"

This was no ordinary bad day. This was the beginning of a ' _fit'_.

"Bah, you are just crotchety old rabbit obsessed with eggs. You know nothing about Christmas."

He had to get out of there.

Already, his mind was formulating a plan. If he could leave quietly and without anyone spotting him, he could fly down to Antarctica, ice himself inside a cave, have his 'fit', and be done with it. Of course, the other Guardians would ask questions, but he was sure that once he was himself again, he would be able to come up with a lie or two to ward them off with.

He took a brief look around, seeing that Bunny and North were too engrossed in their argument to notice him, that Tooth was busy giving commands to her fairies, and that Sandy was snoozing quietly. It was the perfect moment to leave.

Without making a sound, he carefully pried the window open, fingers trembling madly as he undid the latch, and he snatched up his staff before tumbling out the window with none of his usual grace.

He didn't notice the Sandman's eyes open abruptly, nor did he notice the golden exclamation mark forming above the little man's head, but in his defense, it was a _horrible_ headache.

* * *

 **A/N: A couple of you more observant ones will notice I've changed the aspects of Jack's "condition" a little. In the first edition, there were no headaches, no auditory hallucinations, and no anxiety attacks. Also, Jack didn't know he had this condition. Now, though, I've added a few symptoms of real-life dissociative-identity disorder to his condition, so now he has headaches, auditory and visual hallucinations (the white dots and the humming [although people with DID usually hear voices, so I took a little creative liberty with that]), and anxiety. Later on, he'll also be shown to suffer from depression, mood swings, and sleep disorders (seeing as he has visible dark circles in the movie, I think insomnia fits best in this case).  
**

 **...Review?**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Heeeey, guess what...It's another chapter of Snow Angel! Yay!  
**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG**

* * *

 _It was Tuesday, at four AM in the morning, and Fergus and his sister were restocking the counter._

" _You're an idiot, Fergus."_

 _He felt almost betrayed at his sister's statement. "Come now, Pris. Aren't you at least a little curious?"_

 _The female spirit began bringing in boxes from the back room, crystal arms that looked like they were made of spun glass lifting the heavy boxes with little to no effort."I am, but not curious enough to die satisfying it. You don't know what you're dealing with, Fergus."_

" _I'm sure he isn't that bad."_

" _Tell that to the people he killed," the rainbow spirit shot back bluntly. She dusted off her hands before beginning to unpack one of the boxes, bottles of whiskey slipping out one by one before they were placed in a neat line on the floor._

 _Fergus blinked. "..._ _ **Killed?**_ _"_

" _What, didn't you know?" Her eyes were gray, signifying calm detachment, as she began restocking the counter with the bottles. "Jackson Overland Frost is the single worst serial killer the spirit world has ever seen. People say he's second only to Death herself."_

" _But surely there must be a mistake?"_

 _Gray shifted to a determined green."Mistake or no mistake, I'm not letting my younger brother risk his life to find out if Frost can be reformed. People have already tried, and they have paid for it in blood. I'm not letting you join them, even if you_ _ **are**_ _annoying."_

 _Fergus decided to ignore that last comment. "Pris, you don't understand. You didn't see him or talk to him. I tell you, the lad's scared of something."_

" _No business of mine." Huffing, she began to unpack a second box, this time drawing out bottles of brandy._

" _Have you no heart?"_

" _Not for killers, I don't."_

 _As she rose to shelve one of the bottles, Fergus stopped her with a reassuring hand on the shoulder. "There are two sides to every story, Pris. I've already heard one side. Now I'd like to hear the other."_

 _Prism seemed about to argue, but she paused when she saw the look on Fergus's face. "You're not going to listen to me, are you?"_

 _Fergus shook his head, and Prism deflated, green darkening to defeated indigo. "Fine, then. Go ahead and talk to him tomorrow. But I'll be there as well, and if he tries to hurt you, I swear I'll kill him with my bare hands, second chances be damned."_

" _Thank you, Prism. That is all I can ask for."_

" _Yeah, yeah. Help me with these bottles, will you?"_

* * *

 _Wednesday night brought the usual crowd in at around nine PM, and began to bring them back out at one in the morning. For the most part, the night was uneventful, apart from a short and unremarkable bar-fight around midnight._

 _Still, despite the lack of action, Fergus was more skittish than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. His mind went over Prism's words over and over again, and he couldn't help but feel that this perhaps wasn't the greatest idea._

 _However, pride can present a remarkably convincing argument, and he was resolute not to back down at this state in the proceedings. As much as she may have protested against the plan earlier, Fergus knew Prism well enough to realize that she would be mocking and deriding him if he showed signs of giving up._

 _Thus, he waited, while cleaning (although "cleaning" was a subjective term) some glasses to soothe his troubled nerves. It helped remarkably little._

 _Finally, at 3:08 AM, the door swung open to admit the white-haired teen that Fergus was waiting for. As usual, the teen wandered over to his table by the window, and as usual, any stragglers vanished seemingly into thin air._

 _Fergus shared a glance with his sister, who inclined her head in Frost's direction with an impatient "well, get on with it" expression on her crystalline face. Thus encouraged, Fergus firmly marched over to the younger spirit._

" _The usual, lad?"_

 _If anything, the teen now looked worse than before. Dark circles stood out against the pale white of his face, making him look as if he'd been punched in both eyes. His breathing was short and erratic, his eyes were shiny with panic, and there were stress lines etched in his forehead which had not been there before. He looked exhausted and stressed out, and Fergus found that his heart went out to the poor lad._

 _Still, he didn't say anything, even as the teen nodded in confirmation, and even as he placed the Jägerbomb in front of him. He knew enough to realize that more pressure would only discourage the young man from speaking his mind._

 _He waited until his companion finished three drinks, one after another, before he hesitantly broached the topic. "Lad, is everything alright?"_

 _He'd been expecting the firm nod that served as a reply to his question. Mentally sighing, he tried again. "Are you sure? You don't look too good."_

 _The second nod was forceful, as the look in the bright blue eyes practically screamed at Fergus to go the hell away. The leprechaun took this as a cue to turn to his sister for help, and in response to his pleading stare, Prism rolled her eyes before jumping down from her seat on the counter and striding confidently over to the table._

 _Her eyes were orange, midway between red and yellow, signifying anger but also a reluctant curiosity. Hands on her hips, she pinned her gaze on Frost. "Listen here, kid. Now, if I had my way, you'd be already outside in the cold, and I'd make sure you'd never come back. However, since my brother insists that someone give you a chance, I'm willing to hear whatever explanation you'd have to offer, both about your pitiful state, and about the blood on your hands. So spit it out quick, Frost, because my patience is almost at an end."_

 _The younger spirit looked flabbergasted, his mouth partway open. He blinked before carefully beginning to speak. His voice sounding raspy, as if from disuse. "Look, I don't know who exactly you are, but please just leave me alone-"_

" _If I have to harbor a killer in my bar, I at least would like to know_ _ **why**_ _he's a killer."_

 _Fergus stared at his sister. "Your bar?_ _ **Your**_ _bar?"_

 _Before an argument could be started, the frost teen spoke up again, voice brittle with defensiveness. "Well, for starters,_ _ **I'm**_ _not a murderer...technically."_

 _Prism quirked a rainbow-streaked eyebrow. "Oh? Care to explain?"_

 _The teen shrunk in on himself clutching his ever-present staff closer to his chest. "I really don't want to talk about it, thank you."_

" _You damned well will talk about it, or it's no more Jägerbombs, for you, young man."_

 _Fergus nearly chuckled at the look of horror that spread across Frost's face. The winter spirit was quick to compose himself, however, expression closing off as his voice turned steely. "It's honestly none of your business."_

" _It's my business if there's a murderer in my bar!"_

" _It's not your bar!"_

" _Shut up, Fergus!"_

 _By now, Prism was practically frothing at the mouth, eyes red in blazing anger. She seemed to have forgotten the original point of her inquiries, instead insistent on prying answers out of the teen. In an attempt to calm her down, Fergus placed a hand on her arm, but she was quick to smack it off._

 _She rounded on Frost, towering over him, and Fergus noted a flash of panic in the cold blue eyes. Prism, however, was oblivious as she began shouting at the cowering spirit, each word like a bullet from a machine gun._

" _You murdered people, both humans and spirits! You're a sick person, with a heart as cold as your stupid ice! At least tell me_ _ **why**_ _!"_

 _The wall, the table, and the chair served to enclose Frost, the only avenue of escape blocked by the wrathful rainbow spirit. Frost clearly realized this, for the panic in his eyes rose, and his thin hands began to shake ever so slightly. His voice wavered a little "I am under no obligation to tell you anything."_

 _Prism seemed to loose it, then. Raging at the thought that she was speaking with a killer, she lashed out, grabbing the edge of the torn brown cape._

 _What happened next was, and yet was not, expected._

 _A bolt, bright blue with winter magic, hit Prism smack in the chest, while at the same time a cold, pale hand shoved her roughly away. Under the force of these two impacts, Prism staggered back a few feet, eyes wide in shock as frost began to spread over the front of her blouse._

 _She recovered shortly afterwards. Livid with anger, she turned towards her opponent, ready to sling more insults at him, only to pause._

 _Jack Frost was hunched over like a cornered animal._

 _A strange mix of anger, sadness, and fear tainted those blue eyes, as he glared furiously, staff between him and his potential attacker. With a voice like splintering ice, he snarled, "Don't. Touch. Me._ _ **"**_

 _Both Fergus and Prism froze._

 _Frost then edged out of his seat, his free hand scrabbling at the worn tabletop as he hastily rose, still keeping his staff between himself and the two siblings. Gaze fixed on the two, he reached into his vest pocket, drew out some coins, and threw them onto the table, hand shaking horribly. The haphazard mix of kroners, shillings, and rubles skidded across the wooden surface, some landing on the floor._

 _There was silence._

 _A half-choked voice broke it. "...I have DID. It...it stands for dissociative identity disorder. You can p-piece it together for yourselves," a deep breath, "There are times when I'm not in control of my actions. I try, but it doesn't always work. Sometimes I can't help but slip."_

 _Neither of the two siblings could say a word. Sighing, the spirit turned away, eyes downcast, even as he whispered. "I...I'll just go now."_

 _Before either of them could blink, he was gone._

* * *

There were times when Sandy seriously hated being mute. Now was one of them.

Images flashed above his head, as he tried to get the other Guardian's attention to the fact that Jack had disappeared. All of them, however, were far too absorbed in their related activities to notice the fuming Sandman.

He briefly toyed with the idea of throwing an elf at them, but the way things were going, by the time he managed to get their attention and explain things to them properly, Jack would be long gone to who knows where. If he left now, though, he still had a chance of catching up with the winter spirit.

Decided, the Sandman floated out the open window, none of his companions noticing his abrupt departure. Once outside, he soon spotted a flash of blue in the distance, and swiftly began to pursue it.

* * *

Jack Frost felt, in short, like hell.

As he touched down in Antarctica, he couldn't help but feel that he'd left the meeting just in time. Already, it seemed as if the world was foggy and far away, and he felt confused and disoriented. His head ached horribly, and the sparks dancing across his vision were now bigger and brighter.

 _Almost there…_

He stumbled haphazardly through the barren plain. The cave he normally used was only a few steps away. If he hurried, he could lock himself away before his 'fit'.

The wind was howling, and a haze of snow blocked his vision, only adding to his bewilderment. He knew the way like the back of his hand, however, and it wasn't long before he reached a narrow crevice in the ground, which he knew led down to a wide, deep cave.

 _Only a few more steps…_

He was there, he was almost there, already he was preparing to step inside-

A rope, golden as the sun, soft despite its grainy appearance, wrapped around his waist and hefted him up into the air.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Prism isn't all bad. She just has no patience for killers :P And she has a bit of a temper, the dear.**

 **Also, about the eyes color changing thing...Yes, her eyes do change colors in accordance with her mood. But it's a bit more complicated than that. The same color can have dozens of different meanings (so blue can mean sadness, but also serenity, melancholy, nostalgia, a mix of happy and sad, depression, contentment, etc etc etc).  
**

 **Prism and Fergus weren't born as siblings (because two siblings both becoming spirits is so improbable, it's basically impossible). Instead, as spirits they became close friends, did some sort of blood-exchange ritual (think Loki and Odin), and declared themselves siblings. Fergus is Irish, Prism is Canadian. (Although I can't write an Irish accent to save my life, so you'll have to imagine Fergus has one).**

 **By the way, rainbows are a symbol of hope. Remember that. That's important.**

 **...Review? Pretty please?  
**


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